Halak opened his mouth. Shut it. His legs folded, and he dropped back into his seat.
After a moment’s silence, Garrett said, “Burke, you’ve got proof?”
Burke had watched the exchange without comment. “Yes.”
Garrett heard Halak’s sharp intake of breath. She kept her attention focused on Burke. “You can produce it?”
“Yes.”
“Any objection if we let Halak tell his side of things?”
Burke spread her hands. “Absolutely none.”
“Good.” Garrett turned to Halak. “Let’s hear it, Commander. The ball’s in your court.”
She added a silent emendation: Play it wisely.
Chapter 19
“There’s the perimeter beacon dead ahead,” Halak said. He was in the front seat, passenger’s side, and pointed through a spray of sleet pattering against the landskimmer’s windscreen.
“I see it,” said Strong, who was driving. He ratcheted up the landskimmer’s speed another twenty kilometers. The tiny craft shivered as the engine kicked in.
Halak heard the Doppler rise and fall of the beacon, and then their craft’s ping of acknowledgement. The beacon was a blur as they whizzed past. On instinct, he glanced up, scanning the underbellies of a layer of gunmetal gray clouds. No air patrols. Yet.
As if reading his thoughts, Strong said, “Now they come after us. Soon as they figure out the skimmer’s stolen.”
“Well, I think we outran them,” said Thex, his blue antennae wiggling with agitation. Using his forearm to swab away condensation that had fogged the chilled glass of the rear windscreen, Thex squinted. “I don’t see anyone.”
“Don’t count them out.” Halak’s teeth grated. The squeaky sound of fabric on glass set them on edge. “How much further, Strong?”
“Twenty kilometers, Commander.”
“That’s pretty far.”
“It was the best I could do. I didn’t want the city sensor grid picking up on our re-entry trail.”
“I know, I know.” Halak fidgeted. Watched as the scenery scrolled beneath them. Once away from the coast, the terrain on Ryn III turned arid, the vegetation brown and sparse, dotting craggy hills scored by arroyos.
Halak dug his nails into a week’s worth of beard glazing his jaw and jowls and gave himself a good scratch. His nails rasped over stubble. Good God, but he’d be glad to get back to the Barker.First thing he’d do was stand under a steaming hot shower— realwater—for a half hour (he didn’t care if he used up his allotment for the week) and then a shave. (Starfleet Intelligence thought they had to look the part of mercenaries down on their luck. So, the ratty clothing, the beards—all except Thex, whose cheeks were baby-smooth.)
He was antsy. Halak never hadliked landskimmers. In the air, he could turn and fight. Air was like space: three-dimensional. Traveling a scant seven meters above the surface, with no room to really maneuver, made him anxious. Halak dug into his beard again, for want of anything better to do. “Just feels too far away. You’ve got a fix on the shuttle?”
“Shuttle telemetry’s coming in loud and clear. Lucky I didn’t crack her up, getting her out of parked lunar orbit and piloting via remote. She landed okay, though.”
“Good,” said Halak, knowing their situation was anything but. Having the unmarked, unregistered shuttle touch down without incident was about the only bright spot. He blew out a breath. He was sweating like a pig, partly from heat, the rest from nerves. He shrugged out of his khaki-colored jacket. Beneath the jacket, he wore Marassian wool pants and a throck-haired shirt: local civilian dress. They’d arrived in the middle of the local spring. The weather was like San Francisco in winter—brisk, cold, with a strong wind coming in off the water and smacking you in the face like an icy fist, and gushers of sleety rain that got dumped by heavy gray clouds every afternoon. But the landskimmer was small, warm, and close with the overripe odor of men’s sweat. Rivulets of perspiration dribbled from Halak’s armpits and crawled over his ribs. Reaching forward, Halak fiddled with a vent, angling cool air into his face.
Strong said, “Setting the shuttle down at the edge of town was too risky.”
“Yeah,” said Halak, without enthusiasm. He felt moisture evanescing from his neck, and his shoulders jerked with an involuntary shiver. He sopped the back of his neck with his sleeve. “Still too far away.”
“We’ll make it.”
Thex piped up from the back seat. “What I wouldn’t give for an emergency beam-out to the Barker,sir.”
Halak grunted an assent. “No cavalry this time around. We’re on our own until we clear Ryn space.”
“Plausible deniability,” said Strong, making it sound like something obscene. He depressed the throttle, trying to get more speed out of the skimmer. The vehicle lurched and shuddered. “Hope Starfleet Intelligence is happy.”
“Ease off before we come apart,” said Halak.
“Aye, sir,” Strong said. He sucked air then let it out in a long exhalation. “Sorry. It’s just, well, damn it, it seems stupidto have taken this many risks and come away with so little. Waste of time, putting our necks on the line. Felt really close, you know? Like we’re so close to getting something useful on the Syndicate, then our cover gets blown.”
Halak didn’t respond. Strong was right. Ten days wasted, and nothing to show. Hell, they’d be lucky to get off the planet. The ostensible mission had been as deceptively simple as it had been dangerous. Ryn III was one of the Asfar Qatala’s distribution hubs for red ice. The Orion Syndicate was also involved, but Starfleet was still amassing intel on them. Red ice was a secondary concern. The primary goal was to get information on how the Syndicate was currently set up, how it’s network functioned, who controlled what. Follow the money. So, their mission: Pose as independent mercenaries, vie for a piece of the distribution pie, make contact with an operative in the Orion Syndicate. Get the information, and then get the heck off the planet.
The rationale for a trio was also deceptively simple. Three people were, in theory, harder to keep track of than two. If one of them were suspected of being an SI plant, this would take the focus off the other two. At least, that’s what Starfleet Intelligence explained to Thex and Strong. Regrettably, this might lead to one of them being eliminated—SI-speak for very dead.But no one had forced Thex and Strong to volunteer. What SI didn’t bother explaining was that it was also easier for one of them to peel off from the other two and do another mission—the realmission—on the side, without the other two being involved. That’s the rationale that SI—and specifically Commander Marta Batanides—had offered about why Halak, in particular, should volunteer.
Halak didn’t want the mission. He also couldn’t refuse, not when Batanides did an end-around and asked him, again, in front of Captain Connors—not without arousing suspicion. Not without making someone want to take a much closer look at Samir al-Halak, maybe pick apart his past just a teensy bit more. So Halak was stuck. On the one hand, he couldn’t risk SI nosing around more than Batanides, maybe, already had. On the other, he couldn’t risk anyone from the Qatala—or the Syndicate—drawing a bead. True, he’d been a much younger man when he’d had any dealings with either organization. A boy, really: The last time he’d been on Farius Prime he’d been clean-shaven and about ten kilos lighter. Still.